


The Beggar at Your Feet

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shop, Alternate Universe - College/University, Cold Weather, F/M, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Modern Era, Near Death Experience
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-27
Updated: 2013-01-27
Packaged: 2017-11-27 02:05:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/656865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire was not an artist, he was an alcoholic. Enjolras was a storyteller who spoke of a paradox of lies and truths. They were complete opposites in every way, and yet Grantaire found himself bewitched even so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Beggar at Your Feet

**Author's Note:**

> I've been bewitched by the wonderful and devastating world that Victor Hugo has created, but I really wanted to see these outstanding characters happy, and what better way to do that than to write them into the modern era?
> 
> This is mostly thanks to [denchura](http://denchura.tumblr.com) who I spammed with Les Mis so much that she had a dream of Grantaire unwillingly working at a coffee shop. I never would have made this without her support, and I definitely never would have finished it, that's for sure!

Grantaire was a drunkard, not an artist.

His fingers were stained with charcoal and graphite. Colors dug under his nails from the ink of the printing press and the oils of his paints. He had a skill that could rip the humanity out of the soul and place it in the two dimensional, if you believed in humanity, that is. Grantaire found it hard to believe in anything, from the press of the paper beneath his skin, rough and catching on a hangnail, to the drag of his brush or his charcoal across it. Ironic, that he could create such vivid visage of the world, but he could never, under any circumstances, create the world that he knew was there: the void of every soul and waking moment of life. The nonexistence of reality that was impossible to recreate, through minimalism or realism or any –ism of the world.

It was this reason that Grantaire was not an artist.

But it was through drink that he could see the world in such a blurry visage that it couldn’t be real. It was through drink that his lips went numb and his fingers buzzed and knees wobbled. It was this that made him note that there was no sort of belief to be had in the world. And where was art without belief? It was the reliance on his drink that others called him mad for. Grantaire had been in art school for five years and was known by everyone and no one at once. He was the student who would work in frenzy in the solitary corner of the studio, streaking paint along the canvas with an unsteady and drunkard stroke.

His painting was not unlike Jackson Pollock’s in that it had just as little meaning. Those who argued one way or another were conceited and deceived, because Pollock may have been many things, but there was no meaning in his work. He fell into the failing world of fine art. The market was what mattered and don’t let anyone fool you otherwise. The art world was all about the latest figure and the popularity, of the kitsch and the money. It was fuel to his fire, which the world absolutely, positively believed in nothing because there was nothing worth believing in. 

Grantaire hadn’t been like this always. But it only took so long for the world to tear certainty down with unsteady claws and rip them to bits, and if you survived the fall you were just all the worse for it. But Grantaire had survived but he wasn’t the worse, he was enlightened to the absolution that there was nothing to be enlightened towards. The world was full of stench and the garbage of ideal. Grantaire kept to himself and lived in the cycle of life, the getting up, the going to bed, the cigarette stain on his teeth and the callouses on his fingers. Of hot coffee brewed in the morning café he worked at. In the studio night after night, where he tried in vain to toss all of this on a canvas, because the world was like a cyclical, spitfire hell and he was trapped.

It was through art school that he met little Jean Prouvaire, though he wasn’t an artist - he was a poet. It was through Jean, or Jehan, as he preferably called himself, that he met the others; sweet, coy Courfeyrac, loyal Combeferre, unlucky Bossuet, the fretful Joly, the hardworking Feuilly, and Marius and Eponine, who came together as a pair always, even though Marius had another name in his heart and Eponine had sadness crinkling in her eyes. The lot of them had a light in their eyes and a name on their lips. It was a name of freedom, from oppression, from social standing, the freedom to be equal in every right, no matter the color of skin or the body in their beds or the money in their pockets. 

Grantaire got along with them with happy jests and jabs at their falsities, watching their bodies weave around through the thick of smoke and the haze of his drink. How they tolerated him he did not know, but he poked holes in Combeferre’s philosophy and swayed to the rhythm of Jehan’s poetry. Perhaps that was why, to have someone who rejected the very fabric of reality they clung to, someone to help them think out the holes in their own beliefs. He waited for the day when they left him for better company, but so far, none of them had done so.

But even with all of these friends, it wasn’t until he got switched to the evening shift at the café that he found someone of concrete substance with those same ideals on his lips. This person stood on the other side of the cash register and read everything on the menu, every sign posted about free trade coffee and gluten free treats, double - triple checked the sources, and finally smiled with satisfaction. He was someone with golden hair and a soft, liquid voice and eyes that burned like blue flame and warmed the very inner compartments of his heart. The one who his friends had set all their hope in saving Grantaire’s soul from the pit it had fallen into.

“His name is Enjolras.” Courfeyrac whispered in his ear, sitting on the stool next to the counter that Grantaire had frozen in the middle of washing.

The café put on an open mic night on Fridays, and Grantaire had worked around the crowds all through Jehan’s poetry, through Courfeyrac’s lilting jokes, through Combeferre’s slow song. But when Enjolras had stepped onto the makeshift stage with his red cardigan and white undershirt, he should not have looked as nice as he did. He had undone black tie around his neck and tousled hair, and yet even these imperfections looked like perfection on him, of a God revisiting the earth. By the time he took a seat at the stool, Grantaire’d stopped breathing completely. He dribbled coffee down the front of his apron and his rag slipped through his trembling fingers.

Enjolras was a storyteller. 

He told stories about saving the world from evil, but he didn’t start with “once upon a time,” he started with “It is time to find out who we are.” Like anyone could just stand up and call people together and go save the world with pitchforks and words. He sat on the stool for the calmer parts, expressively wiggled his fingers and smiled his way through it. But when it came to a battle scene, he was all fire, leaping up and crossing the stage, he knelt at an emotional scene, inches from his audience, and his voice fell to a stage whisper, loud and yet chillingly quiet. His curls flashed about his head when he moved, listing to one side of his head with a naturalness that Grantaire’s hair would never have. Enjolras spoke a story of revolution and change. Grantaire’s heart wept for him, for them all and their sad ideals and misguided hearts. But he was the only one, for when Enjolras stepped away, he left that same fire of belief and righteousness, of benevolence – those hated, unfaithful lies – in their eyes.

“Enjolras.” Grantaire whispered it through a haze startlingly clear.

He swallowed against the tide of feelings and the blush that climbed up his neck and to his cheeks as the owner of the name appeared beside Courfeyrac at the other side of the counter.

“Can I get a Raspberry Soy Chai tea?” He asked, shuffling for change in his pockets with an awkwardness that seemed unbecoming of such onstage presence.

He didn’t look down or shuffle his feet, but there was some shyness hidden in there nevertheless. Beside him, Courfeyrac clasped him warmly on the shoulder.

“Our friend has been bewitched by you,” he said with a grin and a twinkle in his eye.

At the admission, Grantaire fumbled with the coffee cup and only just saved it from a sickening and shattered death on the floor by hooking it around the handle with his pinky. He spared a glance at Enjolras and found him looking graciously down, an embarrassed smile changing his face from the likeness of a marble statue to a charming human.

Grantaire never longed to paint anyone so badly in the entirety of his life. His fingers itched as he made the tea, deftly pulling it together from some blessedly coherent vestige of his mind. When he handed the drink back over and took Enjolras’s money and nearly jerked his hand back when their fingers brushed warmly.

The touch scalded up his arm and made his very bones tingle with a feeling that he was sure he’d lost long ago. Here at this hated workplace, with warm laughter at charming bald Bossuet as he attempted to do a magic trick and dropped all of his cards across the floor, at Courfeyrac and his sly grin, like he knew something of the surge of sudden long repressed emotions.

“This is really good,” Enjolras said, complimenting the tea. “One of the best I’ve ever had.” It wasn’t a lie, it was meant to start some small talk, but Grantaire felt a surge of bitterness rise up in his chest.

“Wonderful,” he said, laughing and trying hard not to scoff. “I’ll always be able to make drinks, when all else fails.” His voice came off too bitter, though. He could feel it; he saw it in the sudden widening of Enjolras’s eyes.

With a swallow, he tossed his rag into the sink and disappeared into the back room, shouting for Bahorel to take the front. He slammed out into the chilly winter air and fumbled for his cigarettes, plopping down on the freezing concrete step and breathing in as deeply as he could without choking.

Frustration curled in his breast, and stoppered his throat. After taking good care to feel nothing and believe nothing for so long, the sudden barrage of both at one time made him ache. He closed his eyes against it, licking his lips as the cold wind chapped them. He scoffed at the clarity of the world suddenly, heightened by the aching cold of the weather and the snow dusting his hair. He closed his eyes and saw Enjolras on the stool with a soft smile and aching eyes as he spoke of a world that was all freedom and loyalty and equality. It was a world that simply couldn’t exist, but that wistful smile made him ache, it made the artist in him ache to paint, or etch the carving out of a plate and engrave his R into the side, beside Enjolras’s chest. He longed to drink and get away from this clear world, because it was cruel even in its good intentions.

He finished his cigarette and tossed it into the snow, finally letting the cold chase him inside. He leaned against the door inside for a long time before his heart stopped pounding. He could hear a chorus of voices at the front and set his jaw when he recognized an anthem for equality. He swallowed another scoff and forced a grin, slipping through the door. Enjolras was still by the counter, though his back was turned, he cradled his latte in his hands like it was something precious. He was singing along with a clear, strong voice that was easily one of the strongest in the room. Combeferre, who had jumped back on stage to sing the anthem, had coaxed the entire room to sing along, even Bahorel, who was leaning against the sink with his arms crossed, nodding his head to the music.

They were all fools. He was suddenly distinctly glad that their manager wasn’t there, since Courfeyrac and Jehan were both sitting on the counter. He exchanged a look with Bahorel, who only shook his head and gave a helpless shrug.

“Just let them go, it’s the last song of the night.”

The words were like music to his own ears, as everyone started to clear out after the song was finally over, leaving disaster in their wake. Grantaire readied the mop bucket and let it rest while he went out to sweep the carnage of the front room. “This is a café, not a bar.” He muttered under his breath, thinking everyone gone. “Believe me, I know the difference.”

“Oh too true,” Jehan’s voice lilted from the foyer. “Your home is a bar.” He grinned up at his friend with a chuckle.

“That is also true.” He nodded agreeably. “But I came in to ask if you’d like to meet us at the bars when you’re done. We’re going to have a regular party.”

Grantaire straightened, wiping a hand through his hair and leaning on the broom. “I thought I was an incorrigible drinking partner?”

Jehan nodded emphatically. “You are, but we have a designated driver and you won’t have to walk home by yourself.”

“How do you know I’d be going out tonight?” He asked, teasing, because he already knew the answer.

“You and I both know you’ll be out anyway.” Jehan mused with a sly smile. “But come on, take us up on our offer.” He stressed the “us” and the “our” as though Grantaire couldn’t see Courfeyrac, Feuilly, and Bossuet’s faces pressed up against the glass. He bumped the glass with the end of the broom, laughing when they stumbled backwards.

“Enjolras is goin’!” Courfeyrac shouted, his accent making his voice harder to understand through the windowpane. Grantaire blushed regardless, ducking his head down to avoid giving Courfeyrac the satisfaction.

“Ah, Enjolras! Our fearless leader has captured even your frosty heart,” Jehan exclaimed, grinning. “His charm can’t be contained!”

Grantaire shot him a strained look; wayside curls fell into his face.

“Go on, R.” Bahorel called from behind and underneath the counter. “You haven’t had a lay in ages!”

“I’m not looking for a lay–“ Grantaire paused. “How would you know what action I’ve seen, anyway?” He ran a hand through his hair again.

“Careful, you’ll go bald!” Joly shouted through the glass this time. Bossuet punched him in the arm. There was a hum of laughter as Joly yelped and listed off various diseases in alarm. No one took him particularly seriously, since he got most of his information by frantically looking up things on WebMD.

“Come on,” Jehan prodded with a grin, without answering. Instead he plucked at his purple Hawaiian shirt. “Enjolras never goes out, and he’s offered to DD. Eponine filched her parent’s old van. It’ll be fun. I’ll buy you drinks and you guys can chat and make nice!”

Somehow the thought of Enjolras going made him want to refuse. He was usually the first one to be out from the moment his studio class ended until the bars closed at four. As a result he forgot more days than he remembered, often ending up places entirely different. Sometimes he ended up beside people he didn’t know at all, once, in the bed of a professor. Another time, he woke up in an alleyway with no jacket and unzipped pants. He’d wake up with bruises and black eyes and one time he even woke up deaf for two days.

There was one spring break he couldn’t remember at all; just a few blotches of inky black staining his memory like alcohol stained his liver. He ran a tongue across his lip, thinking of blazing blue eyes. “Alright. You have to wait for me to finish closing, though.”

“Unless you want to help,” Bahorel chimed in, his head popping up from under the counter with stacks of dirty cups in his hands. Jehan took that as his excuse to dash out the door with in a fit of giggles.

-

The bar they’d chosen first was a little run down place that Grantaire liked to frequent for their cheap prices and good brew. Jehan bought him the first couple of drinks, and then Courfeyrac took up the mantle after him until Grantaire was feeling chipper enough from the good company to buy his own. Grantaire meandered around them, finally in his element and smiling freely, laughing with meaning. Now that he had alcohol back in his system the entire world seemed a bit brighter. Everyone seemed to be having a good time, even Enjolras, whose stonier continence had given way to a slight smile. The melancholy that had been with him during his long and hard sober shift at work seemed but a distant nightmare now that he was out and about with his silly idealistic friends.

There was a dance floor at this one, and he dragged Eponine away from Marius for a while, pressing a sloppy kiss onto her cheek while she laughed in his ear, free and happy for the first time that night. “’Ponine,” he warbled along with the song, swinging her around.

“Grand R,” she said, following his trilling melody with a teasing smile on her face. Amusement sparkled in her eyes. “Are you trying to make all of your friends broke?”

“They did offer,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “You are following Marius around like a lost puppy again.” He smiled softly at the way her smile slipped from her face. “You should give him up, you know his girlfriend, Colette.”

“Cosette,” she said, correcting him with a poke on his nose. He grinned.

“Yes, yes. Whatever.” He waved a hand impatiently. “You’re too pretty to be wasted on him.” He said, pulling her back and out and letting her spin to the jazz number. When she returned to his arms she grinned up at him, hooked her leg around the back of his knee and pulled.

“Are you going to rescue me?” She asked, as she held his hands with a surprising amount of strength and dipped him forwards. With her foot behind his knee he was unable to keep his balance and so fell backwards. Their roles were reversed as she grinned down at him. It took him a moment to process what happened, but he returned her smile with a wink.

“You wouldn’t want me.” He knew it all too well. She tutted at him and lowered him to the floor, releasing his hands and letting him flop to the floor with about a half a foot left. He hit the ground with an ‘oof.’

“I think I can decide that for myself. But I think you’ve set your eyes on higher sights, haven’t you, R?” She put her hands on her hips as he sat up. At her words, he couldn’t help but glance at the table of laughing friends and warmth. His eyes met Enjolras’s, who was glaring at him like he’d done some immeasurable crime.

“Does he ever laugh?” He asked, hefting himself to his feet and listing a bit to the left. Eponine hooked her arm through his and pulled him along through the tables, back towards friends. 

“Not unless he’s saving the world.”

“The world can’t be saved,” Grantaire exclaimed, trailing along behind her. 

She flipped her hair as she looked back at him, and her hand was warm as she squeezed it, as though in assurance. They returned to the table among cheerful and harmless catcalls, and Bossuet tripped over himself as he dragged Joly out onto the dancefloor next. Joly went along, exclaiming about various horrible ways to die from dancing and how the knees could only take so much strain before they popped out of socket. His worries were followed by cheerful peals of laughter. Jehan and Feuilly had both disappeared, though Grantaire thought he’d seen Jehan’s blond braid in the crowd at the bar. 

Eponine slid into her place by Marius’s side as usual, like his little shadow, following him about. She found his hand and pulled him out to dance too, and he followed with a cheerful laugh, missing always how much brighter Eponine was when she could claim him. Grantaire slipped into one of the vacated seats beside Enjolras, reaching across and grabbing for his beer. 

“How many have you had?” Enjolras asked, his voice cold against the warm laughter of everyone else. 

Grantaire shrugged, sitting back and holding his beer up to Enjolras, who couldn’t hide his disdain. “I’m good for things other than simply making latte’s, you see. My charm lies in this.” He announced, and throwing back his head, downed what was left, wiping froth off his lips with the back of his hand.

“I meant it as a complement.” Enjolras frowned, tapping his fingers against the tabletop. The shadow of insecurity was quietly endearing. In response, Grantaire leaned back against his seat, tipping his head back and letting out a loud burp. Enjolras, if possible, looked even more scandalized than before.

“You’re disgusting.” He exclaimed. If Grantaire’s heart shuddered a little bit he ignored it, leaning over to put his head on Enjolras’s shoulder. He shuddered under him and shoved him off with enough force to knock him backwards onto the floor. Grantaire threw back his head and laughed, cheeks aflame from the drink and cheerful tears wetting the corner of one eye.

“I’m only drunk!” He leapt up and did a funny sort of bow, swooping and nearly tipping over again. “Have you ever tried it?” 

Courfeyrac, cheerful and hanging partially from Combeferre’s shoulder, laughingly interjected. “Our Enjolras would never! He’s too good for drinking, or smoking, or even fucking!” Combeferre’s face went very white as Enjolras’s went red, flushing from his neck to his ears and splotching on his cheeks. Even that, in the light, seemed heavenly on him. 

“Okay, that’s it! I think its time we got some air,” Combeferre exclaimed, tucking Courfeyrac’s head under his arm and dragging him outside.

Grantaire flopped back into the seats as Enjolras muttered obscenities to himself, harsh lines cutting across his forehead. An angry line worked along his jaw as he organized all of the cups and mugs into rows at the end of the table. Grantaire watched him with hooded eyes, his head tipped back, until Enjolras finished and turned his glare on him. 

“What?” He snapped, and oh, he wasn’t even sure the Arctic could compare to the frostiness in those blue eyes. It froze his heart and made the blood in his veins stagger, and it nearly startled Grantaire into sobriety. “Are you also here to mock me, and say that I’m an idiot for letting my youth slip away?”

Grantaire shook his head with a grin, curls flopping around his face. “What do you even do all day?” He kept his tone as light as he could and dropped his eyes to Enjolras’s sneakers. They were black and scuffed and the white laces had gone grey and frayed. 

Enjolras glared at him and worked his jaw, as though he wasn’t sure if he was pulling his leg or not. Finally he wet his lips and spoke. “I study. I read, I keep up to date with the current events, figure out the best ways to help others. I keep myself busy helping people and make the world a better place.”

“A better place.” Grantaire repeated, and then broke off with a smile. “There’s nothing to make better, though! You’re fooling yourself.” 

“How can you say that?” Enjolras exclaimed, vehemently. Like he thought there was anything worth being angry about. Any embarrassment turned to anger in a flash. “There are starving people all over the world, people who don’t even have shoes or beds or a helping hand. The campus mess hall throws out more food in a day than certain towns and villages can get in weeks, even months! There are horrible injustices being done to so many people the world over, and you say that there’s nothing to make better? We all need to play our part, come up with better ways to use leftover food, ways to help the homeless and the starving. There are so many things to fix in this world and so many people to help, so how can you act like they don’t need our help?” 

Grantaire stared in wonder, tilting his head at Enjolras’s rush of a speech. As though the whole of it had been on the tip of his tongue just waiting for an excuse to rush forward. And even more, he believed it! That he could make a difference. He leaned forward and bravely poked Enjolras on the nose. Enjolras backhanded his arm away.

“God, you don’t belong here, do you?” Grantaire asked, and was struck by the sudden urge to knock him down from whatever invisible pedestal he was standing on. To verbally beat him at his own game. Grantaire might not be eloquent, or very pretty, or have that sort of passion, but damn, he’d never wanted to knock anyone on their ass as much as he wanted to do it to Enjolras just now. “You’re just some rich kid who thinks he can change the world, like its easy. Like its possible, or like there’s a world to change at all. What do you know of the reality of humanity?” 

By now they’d forgotten all about the others, who were off on the dancefloor, or out in the cold with Courfeyrac and Combeferre, smoking. If any of them had glanced towards the table, they would have changed their minds in an instant, because no one wanted to get near Enjolras when he was in a rage. Enjolras, who was usually the epitome of charm and wit. He lowered his eyes when he passed anyone and always treated everyone with the utmost respect. But Enjolras, all his friends knew, should never be crossed. Because he could be terrible, and Grantaire wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t witnessed it with his very eyes. 

“I should be asking you just that? What are you? Can you even call yourself a man, you’re so buried in your drugs and your cigarettes and your drinks. What are you hiding from, or are you trying to bury yourself into a grave before you’re even twenty five? I don’t know you at all, but I know a waste of space when I see one.” 

Grantaire sat back for the barrage, a half smile on his lips. The words twisted at his gut and made his heart shudder in his ribcage. “Aren’t we all just wastes of space, though? We have no purpose but to live until we die, and it doesn’t matter to anyone how many people you’ve fucked or how many beers you drink.” 

“But why waste your life doing that when you could help others?” 

“I help others by staying out of their way.” Grantaire smiled charmingly, leaned across to Enjolras’s carefully lined up cups and picked one that still had alcohol in it from the middle. He drank it in a few gulps and set it back, not missing the way Enjolras’s fingers twitched to reorder them. Then he leaned forward with a cackle, planted his hands on both of Enjolras’s knees, and shook them. “Equality can’t exist because I exist, and I’m always going to be lesser than you.” 

Enjolras’s face fell, and the fight drained a bit out of him. “That’s not true.” He started to say, but Grantaire stopped him by squeezing his knees.

“Don’t contradict yourself! I’m a waste of space, you say. You look at me and hate me. But the nature of humanity is to think themselves fucking awesome people who can change the world, and then fall desperately before they can even get there.” 

The hard gaze melted and turned soft and sad in an instant. Under his fingers, he felt the tension start to ease off. And suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to bring him down to his level. To kiss him senseless in an alleyway and jerk him off among the trash. To fall asleep there with him and wake up stinking and aching but warm. “You can’t believe that.”

Grantaire smiled the sad smile of a fallen man. “I don’t believe in anything.”

“Seriously,” Enjolras frowned, catching his hands in his own and pulling them off with a touch nearly gentle. 

Grantaire slid forward in his seat, elbows on his own knees. He looked up, linking their fingers together. “I’m never serious.” 

Enjolras snorted at him, and the next instant, Grantaire had brushed his knuckles against his lips, entire body shaking from the effort. But before Enjolras could pull his hand away or make some sort of reply but to widen his eyes and suck in a breath, Bossuet burst back onto the scene, stumbling and pulling Joly along behind him. 

“I think I’ve twisted my ankle.” Joly groused. His hair was tousled in every direction and his face was twisted in an exaggerated image of pain.

Grantaire laughed and released Enjolras’s hand, feeling very much like he’d just touched the untouchable. He slid away through the crowd at the bar because his mouth was far too dry and his throat ached with the need for a drink. 

Or five hundred drinks. Instead he ordered four double shots, took them all in a row, and twisted around the dance floor with Jehan and Courfeyrac and Combeferre until he felt them coming back up and escaped to the alleyway, where he hurled it all out on some old, cold newspapers. Then he slid down along the chilly wall until he stumbled and sat down hard on the ground. He pulled the collar of his shirt up from his sweater, huddled his hands into his pockets, and thought no more. 

-

“Oi, over here! I see him!” 

A very thick Irish voice cut through the thickness in his head. Cold cut through his very bones and made him moan as he came to. A warm hand touched his cheek he was gently turned over onto his back. He leaned his head towards the and forced open his eyes. He stared up into the two worried faces of Courfeyrac and Combeferre.

“Christ, what the hell are you doing out here?” Combeferre’s voice asked as though very far away. 

“Was sick,” he mumbled. His head felt awful, and it throbbed thickly in his ears like heavy bass that refused to stop. 

“He’s frozen cold,” Combeferre said with a cry, withdrawing his hand from his cheek. Grantaire’s head listed in the direction it disappeared, as though he’d be able to find it again. Together, they looped their arms under his shoulders and pulled him up. He tried to find his feet and failed, nearly falling over. He couldn’t feel them, he couldn’t feel his fingers, he couldn’t feel much of anything.

It was slightly worrying. They changed position, Combeferre taking him up under the arms and Courfeyrac his ankles, and together they walked him to the mouth of the alley. Grantaire stared up at the stars until he felt queasy again and let them slip closed, pretending he was being rocked. 

“We found him!” Courfeyrac’s voice was tinged in panic.

“Joly!” Combeferre’s voice boomed, though it was getting farther away. 

“What happened?!” Joly’s voice was frantic and sharp. He felt hands touch his hands and his cheeks, heard Eponine exclaim in alarm. 

“We found him passed out in the alleyway.”

“Get him into the van, we have to get him warm.” There was a surge of noise as friends scrambled around. 

Without any bottom below him, he felt like he was about to be tossed into a flaming chasm. He ought to have been more worried about a fiery death, really. Instead he watched the flames in his mind, the orange heat rise up from below like it was going to take him away. He heard a van door open from far away, and more frantic voices. He was jostled around and around, and chaos was everywhere, and just when he thought his head was about to burst, they set him down on something soft, and something hard stuck into his back. They released his arms and curled his legs up and he felt the warm press of blankets. He passed out again to someone rubbing his arms and his hands and warmth seeping slowly in through his skin. 

-

He awoke in another new place, with arms around him and with his entire body burning from the inside out. He frantically flailed, smacked something soft and warm and hardly registered it. He was in Hell, he thought, on fire. He wondered for a moment which one. The Christian one? The Hindu one? The Islamic one? The Tolkien one? They all involved fiery and horrible pain and he wondered which one had it right? They’d dropped him into the pit and now he was roasting in the pits. He wanted to laugh but choked instead, clinging blindly to something soft. He wasn’t sure if he screamed, but his eyes snapped open and all he saw was red and a flash of white before hands gripped his hair and pulled him down, confining him in white. 

“It’s okay!” He heard the devil holding him down say. 

“No!” He exclaimed, and he jerked his aflame elbow up and felt it connect with a sickening noise. He sat up, keeled over the edge of the slab he was on, and collapsed face first on the floor, one arm trapped beneath him and one still tangled in sheets. He laid there, collecting the image of a dark dresser that his forehead just barely managed to avoid, hardwood floors, and the real reality. 

Hands gripped him again, and pulled him up from behind, back onto the bed, and as his head hit the pillow he was sure he saw Enjolras - or an angel, or a devil (who says that devils can’t be fair?), with a creased brow and mouth taught. His eyes were bright and concerned. Grantaire gripped his red sweater with shaking hands and clung to him until he dropped back into unconsciousness. 

-

A sense of absolute stillness, save for a very steady beating in his back and a pulse that throbbed against his bare wrist, woke him in the morning. A soft white light met his eyes when he blinked them open, and it was a strange sense of clarity that waited for him. He closed his eyes again, creasing his brow as he tried to collect his thoughts and too comfortable to move. He’d rarely woken from a night at the bar without having a horrible hangover and hating being awake, but somehow, he was warm and so, so comfortable, and the pillow under his head was soft and downy, and not his own.

He pieced together only a ridiculously frightening hallucination of burning. He took a deep breath through his nose slowly and opened them again, blinking down at the arms that held him, skin pale and warm. Their fingers were laced together. He shifted a little, moved his fingers, and then felt a flood of panic when he realized he couldn’t feel them. He pressed them against each other slowly, wincing at the pins and needles as the were moved. Odd red, white, and blue splotches created a discolored pattern over them and up his hands. He swallowed and wiggled his toes, giving a sigh of relief when he felt them shift in the blanket. 

Another bout of panic, when he realized he was shirtless. Whoever was holding him was breathing steadily against his neck, creating a damp sort of warmth. He touched the softness of the sweater, feeling the yarn on his palm and caressing it with his thumb - which he could thankfully still feel. He waited another moment, then turned his head slowly so that he wouldn’t bump heads with whoever it was.

He was met with Enjolras’s sleeping face, looking untouched by time or age. It was completely unblemished, with a cascade of golden curls on his forehead, damp with sweat nearer the base of his ear. Stubble brushed across his chin and aged him only a little. There was a black and blue sort of bruise there, beside his ear and right below the cheekbone, and he reached a shaking finger around and touched it gently with his thumb. 

The touch made Enjolras shift, and he creased his brow and frowned in his sleep. His hold tightened around him and he took a very slow breath through the nose. Oh, if only everyone in the world looked so perfect when they woke up, maybe then Grantaire would be able to believe in something again. And then his eyes opened, and Grantaire wanted to write fucking poetry with the sudden rush of feeling that rose in his chest. Unbidden, he felt like he knew what it was to believe again, to live for something. His heart started to beat double-time in his chest, and he forgot about his cold fingers for an instant. Questions rose unbidden to his lips, how did he get here? What happened? Where were they? but he shoved them all back and just watched Enjolras wake up instead.

“You’re awake.” Enjolras observed, smiling - a real, true smile that lit up his eyes. Was it the light that passed just right over his face to make it look like he was wearing a crown, or was it just a natural occurrence, of the world celebrating his existence? 

Grantaire stared at him with wide eyes and breathed through his mouth very shallowly, as Enjolras rose up on his elbow, pulling the quilt up over Grantaire’s body from where it had fallen. His fingers were chilly whispers on his bare skin and made the hair on his arms stand up. 

“We thought you wouldn’t make it. Thought you’d have to go to the hospital, but Joly said to just keep you warm and make sure you didn’t get a fever or anything. You had one earlier, but it broke and you’re better, thank God.” He finished building a barricade of blankets around him and met his eyes with guilt swimming in those blue depths. “It was my fault you went outside.” He spoke with so much certainty that Grantaire almost wept. 

“Well I’m glad I didn’t die, then. Because you’re not the one who had me take those shots.” He twisted his lips up into a grin, slowly putting the fragments together. He remembered the fight, and ordering the shots, and then it faded to black except for a brief moment where Courfeyrac’s voice rang in his ear, yelling, ‘We found him!’ 

Enjolras didn’t share his humor, sitting up completely. Grantaire’s hands curled involuntarily from the missing warmth. His body gave a shudder. Enjolras scooted to the edge of the bed and threw another blanket over him, tucking it in methodologically. He didn’t seem to want to be told that he didn’t need to take the blame, but the thought made Grantaire smile a bit. He caught Enjolras’s hand with his own, closing his eyes to the pins and needles that followed the movement. 

“Don’t do that.” He chided him, shifting around under all of the blankets. “Don’t blame yourself for something I did, I’m wild by default,” he said with a very proud grin, and pulled on Enjolras’s hand to lift himself up. Cold air swirled in against his back as he did and he shivered. “Tell me, what happened?”

Enjolras sucked in a breath. “You don’t remember? You were passed out in the alley outside, without a jacket or anything. I don’t know how long you were out there but you looked dead when Courfeyrac and Combeferre found you. Then we brought you here - my flat was the closest - and Joly said to keep you warm as possible.” 

“Then, where is everyone else?” He asked, still holding onto Enjolras’s hand even though he tried to pull it away. 

“The living room,” he jerked his free hand behind towards the door. “Still sleeping, I’m guessing.” He turned and Grantaire got a clear view of the bruise on the side of his head.

“Where’d you get that?” He asked, reaching up to touch it. Enjolras caught his hand and squeezed it.

“Last night.” Enjolras shrugged his shoulders. Grantaire’s eyes widened. 

“I’m sorry.” He said, and meant it. 

“It’s not a big deal.” He made to let go again, but Grantaire still held onto him. He raised an eyebrow at him, a puzzled frown turning down his lips and a blush dusting his cheeks. 

“Thank you. So much.” He struggled to sit up all the way, and disentangled his legs from the blankets, touching his toes to the cold floor. He felt a flash of recollection, at it, about falling to the floor, of arms that tried to pull him up and a sickening crack as his elbow met Enjolras’s head. He stood up very slowly, wobbling a little bit. Enjolras blushed harder, and Grantaire did too, when he realized that he was naked save for his boxers. He shot Enjolras an amused glance.

“And which one of you fine people undressed me?” He asked, smiling wickedly. Enjolras made an awkward, strangled sort of noise and if possible, he blushed even more. Grantaire stared in wonder, because how could this guy possibly be a virgin when he looked like this? Before last night, he never would have thought this person existed today. He was one of those guys who went all out on ‘Make a Difference Day,’ handing out buttons and flyers and preaching passionately in the lawn of the campus courtyard. 

“The bed.” Enjolras rasped. “It was the best place for you to be. So we piled all the blankets we could on you, and I was going to leave you alone but Joly said to get your body temperature up, so.”

“So you, with all the warmth in you from being Sun God, took it upon yourself to bring me back to the living?” Enjolras fought to keep a smile down. 

“Well, you’re well enough to joke, I’m guessing that’s a good sign.” Finally he smiled, a real, genuine smile. “The others will be happy.” 

“Not you?” Grantaire asked, feigning hurt. “No room for this space-waster for you?” He couldn’t help the jibe, but hated himself for the way the smile slipped away. 

“Me too,” Enjolras croaked. “I was so scared.” He squeezed Grantaire’s fingers, and he wished he could feel it. “Your hands are as cold as ice.” 

“I can’t feel much of anything in them,” Grantaire admitted, trying not to let the terror rise to his face. What if he couldn’t hold a brush again? Or a pencil? How would he ever paint the gorgeous man in front of him with numb fingers? He felt a surge of anger at himself for being so stupid, for getting so upset at someone for confirming what he already knew as it was. 

Enjolras sucked in a breath of alarm, raising his hands to inspect the discolored flesh of his hands. Grantaire watched those eyes, the frown pulling the corners of his lips down. “Hey. It’s okay,” Grantaire said. “I’m sure they’ll heal. He raised them to cup Enjolras’s chin in them, feather light touches against his stubble. “I can still move them, so that’s something, right?” 

Vibrant blue eyes met his, for an instant, and then they were pressed together, a hand cradling the back of his neck and another still holding his hand. There was a rush of warm air, and then Enjolras was kissing him. He made a confused noise in the back of his throat, eyes wide as they drank in the details. Enjolras’s were closed, his curls blending with his own dark ones, and he kisses with the desperation of a starving man. His lips were warm and wet and curled around his bottom lip and melted with his top one. It was rushed and sloppy, but when Enjolras pulled back, his lips were still tingling.

“Christ.” Enjolras panted, and he was shaking. “I’ve never - Oh my God.” He broke off with a strangled noise and dropped his head down to Grantaire’s neck and sucked in gulps of air. Grantaire brushes his fingers through his golden curls, traced along the collar of his red sweater with the base of his thumb with wonder. This was it, what it felt like to kiss a God. Or the closest thing the world ever got to a God, anyway.

Grantaire had an alcohol problem. He had the unfortunate tendency to step a little over the line when it came to drinking, because it was fun, because he’d always been a little too wild for his own good. Rarely, if ever, was he serious. And he definitely, absolutely, believed in nothing. 

But his heart was warm as he leaned in and pressed his forehead against Enjolras’s, and he was starting to.

“You know, I’m still feeling a little cold.” Grantaire drawled, draping his hands around Enjolras’s shoulders and leaning close. “Would you mind kissing me again?” 

He took Enjolras’s shocked silence as all the acquiescence he needed, and hummed a little as he leaned forward until he felt warm and comfortable all over. Until Enjolras smiled against his lips and cupped his cheeks in his hands. Until their heartbeats twined together. Until Joly came bursting in with his hair standing up every which way and his face white with worry and interrupted them with a startled shriek. And Grantaire dropped his head onto Enjolras’s shoulder, laughed, and longed for a paintbrush instead of a drink.

**Author's Note:**

> Grantaire's poor fingers are suffering from first degree frostbite. It's nasty stuff but I promise he'll feel again after a few days. Also Raspberry Chai Tea Latte's are the best things ever and if you can find a local shop that makes them, please do me a favor and get five of them. Thank you so much for reading! xoxo!


End file.
